


And That Love Was Jazz, Sir.

by eatamilkbone



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 05:27:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10847382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eatamilkbone/pseuds/eatamilkbone
Summary: To the humid climes of New Orleans, Howard flees and leaves a heartbroken Vince to turn into a man bun wielding hipster who finds out where Howard is... by bumping in to a now popular dance troupe leader Bob Fossil.So Vince goes looking.





	And That Love Was Jazz, Sir.

All work is mine except the use of Mighty Boosh characters. This is a parody, and is written for fun and not for profit.

 

*

After Naboo's hooch wore off and the daylight rose over Dalston like a hot borscht heralding comfort, Howard Moon found himself taking to bed all on his lonesome. He walked past the tatters of the party. There were a few stragglers still boozing, crepe paper, glitter, and confetti and Lester Corncrake's head lining his way, and he stepped over all of it to make his way to bed.

A thousand hot needles of perpetual despair stuck him and he undressed whilst lamenting of his sorry state. Kissing Vince left a taste on his lips he couldn't ignore, and as the hangover began setting in and he tried to fall asleep to negate some of it's effects, he found a wide fissure open in his heart that he knew only love could fill.

And that love was jazz, sir.

*

Bollo had to hold Vince back at the waist as the unwashed, startled-haired, child-of-a-man screamed and cried whilst trying to tear Howard's abandoned room to pieces. Naboo clutched a piece of paper, excellent paper from Stationary Village and scrawled upon with a smart calligraphy pen, that said:

Vince, Naboo, Bollo,

I am gone away, flying on the wings of mid-morning, to accept this mortal coil in lands more welcoming of I, Howard Moon, Jazz Aficionado.

Enjoy your bejewelled lives.

Howard Tommy Jerry Moon

Eventually, crossed legged and sobbing on the floor, Vince Noir suffered the first wave of a great loss, coming at him like a bunch of sharks sniffing the blood of a pelican. Naboo watched him for a minute or so, but left pouting in dismay of the sight. He wouldn't admit it, for Naboo was ever stoic, but he hurt for Vince and with a greater strength, he understood why Howard had left.

Naboo held off looking for answers in crystal balls or casting bones. He wanted to let everything settle... for now.

*

One of Vince's lasting fashion trends was hipster chic. He and Naboo had turned the Nabootique into a third wave coffee shop, and with an undercut pulled back into a man bun, Vince doled out offish customer service as he poured lattes and expertly wielded an Aeropress.

It did not fail to escape him that in such a trend, he was closer to the laid back jazz scene Howard had always craved. But at Naboochino, there was no room for jazz. Electronica, drum and bass, indie were all accepted, of course... but Vice was more than ever allergic to jazz since Howard had left.

Howard's name was even banned in the household, and a few times Bollo had to physically remove Lester Corncrake from the premises, after he had wandered in with blind precision looking for Howard... Vince couldn't even find it funny that Lester's head still wobbled from where Saboo had sewn it back on out of hurried pity.

One had to give it to Vince though. Despite his transfer from Sunshine Kid to Hipster Prat, he still remained the most popular street celebrity in London, and he now even dared to go below the river to Tooting, Brixton and Peckham where he was revered by the yuppie hipsters infiltrating Nappy Valley.

It was on one of these visits to South London that he came across Bob Fossil leading a dance troupe to glory in an old pool hall in Peckham, where the tired and dogged owner now let out his space to the “shite rich students” so he could earn some revenue to pay the bills.

Vince was stood playing a debonair cool image to a crowd of followers, leaned up against a fruit machine, with a beer he wasn't really drinking because deep down he was still Vince Noir of sparkled fame who didn't need substance to have fun.

“Vince?” Shouted Bob Fossil over the din of the room post-applause. It seemed clear like the bangles on The Bangles that Bob Fossil was now... cool.

His dance troupe disbanded to the crowd, and Bob made his way towards Vince who was wide eyed with fear and admiration.

The blue shirt and trousers, Vince was glad to see, had not changed.

“Bob?” Vince replied, glancing around at his 'friends' to see they weren't perturbed enough to judge him for Bob's approach. Bob was, after all, Bob Fossil.

“How you been, Vince? Still thinking about those days at the zoo? Wish you could come back and dress up like a panda to get the lady panda's in the mood?”

Vince went red, and a girl in his party cackled and looked Vince up and down in entertainment. The rest of the party laughed too, and Vince could see his popularity points reducing.

“A lot can happen in ten years,” Bob continued, “just look at me... a man dancer, dancing all over the world!”

“You alright?” Vince asked with cold precision.

“Oh yeah! Just makes me happy seeing you Vince... you look all grown up! I bet you miss those days when you slept on the floor in the hut at the zoo with Howard!”

Vince's entourage were starting to shake their heads. Vince knew that Bob was introducing them to knowledge they hadn't associated with Vince and it was changing the way they looked at him.

Some even moved away.

But Vince didn't care, because the image of Howard was stark in his head. “Not really...” he told Bob.

“Oh come on now, I bet you do! Howard's been gone a long time now... found better friends down in New Orleans. That must hurt your brain melon.”

“No.” Vince said, pulling on all his hipster ideologies and rejecting the effects of outsider emotional influence.

“Whatever,” Bob replied, turning to a pretty lady in the crown and, to Vince's astonishment, wooing her.

*

Bollo was worried he was going to have to choke hold Vince, who was up in Naboo's face with a red hot squealing street fox expression on his alabaster face. “Don't tell me you knew about this!”

“Of course I knew!” Naboo shouted back, pushing hard at Vince's chest to send him sprawling backwards and into the coffee table, where Vince promptly tripped back onto the sofa. He looked aghast at Naboo. “I've known for years, you berk.”

“And you never thought to tell me?”

“Tell you what, Vince? We couldn't even say his name without you breaking something or storming off... remember that Christmas where you told us the only thing you wanted was to forget about him?”

Vince looked back and forth at Bollo and Naboo. He wore an expression of deepening despair and he felt isolated from a vital source of his ability to exist and more importantly, knowledge that the piece still existed itself.

“You could have just told me anyway,” Vince replied.

Naboo looked at Bollo, who shrugged to indicate he didn't disagree with Vince. “You know where he is now, Vince.”

Naboo and Bollo began motions to leave the room. “New Orleans?!” Vince shouted with exasperation. “Where the fuck is that?”

Naboo blitzed into Vince's room. There was some slamming, some rustling, and some muffled pounding before Naboo appeared again and threw a red book at Vince. “In America, you dunce.”

Vince looked down at the passport. One month to go before expiration... he and Howard had got it as a joke almost ten years back, laughing at how they would never travel like peasants.

*

July in New Orleans was sticky. Sweat poured off Vince as soon as he stepped out of the airport to get in a taxi. The sounds were strange, the smell of the country was strange and for some reason it seemed louder than London.

His taxi driver, a child wearing a baseball cap who sat on a bucket to see over the steering wheel and who kept offering Vince over for dinner at his mother's house, dropped him off at the centre of the city where Vince stood in the central island between streetcar lanes looking up at the tall buildings looming overhead.

Just got to find the jazz, Vince told himself. That should be easy.

He asked a kindly lady wearing a sundress where he might find the nearest jazz music and she laughed, and told him to walk through the French Quarter.

Vince didn't know where the French Quarter was. “You tellin' me you came all this way to New Orleans and you don' know what the French Quarter is?!”

Vince blushed.

“You poor child,” the lady told him. “You need to go see my brother, Charles, who works at a snowball shop uptown. He gon' help you look for that real Nola jazz.”

“Thanks,” Vince replied with British distrust, but decided to go ahead with her instructions. The confusing mix of streetcars and streetnames, and the dizzying humidity of the summer, found Vince outside Charles' Snowball Shop just before closing time.

It turned out that Charles himself was made of ice, with delicious food colouring and flavours seeping through him. “Martha sent you?” He asked. “Where you see her at?”

“Uh...” Vince couldn't recall the street.

“Nevermind, son. She sent you to me for the real jazz music, and she do that to everybody. Help me pull these shutters down, and I'll take you over to that bar across the way and you can meet my friends.”

Vince ecstatically obliged.

*

Walking in to the bar, Vince was sure he would see Howard. Nowhere in Vince's mind did he ever think that there would be more than one sorry group of people listening to and playing jazz music. But he found out he was quite naïve when he sat among seasoned jazz veterans who thoroughly enjoyed imparting their superior jazz knowledge on him.

There was no sight of Howard, and some of the group thought they might know people who knew Howard Moon but they could only hope to ask their friends who played in other areas of the city.

“Where you staying, boy?” Charles asked him at the end of the evening.

“A hostel on Canal Street.”

Charles' asked the barman for a pen and paper, and wrote down his number. “Give me a call in a few days time if you need somewhere else to stay... we may have just found your friend by then.”

The paper was a bit soggy from Charles' melting hands.

*

Vince inevitably found his way to the new wave coffee house in the French Quarter on the third day of his stay.

“Something strong, over ice.” He told the clerk who served him. As he stood waiting for his drink, a pink haired barista who bore a strong facial resemblance to Kelly Hoppen eyed him up and down. “You alright, mate?” Vince asked, drawing on his hipster cool to peacock his way through the encounter.

The guy nodded, his pink hair swaying. Vince watched him, and found his attention to the hipster subculture already waining in the light of New Orleans. There was so many new avenues to discover – the bright flamboyant art scene, the crusty punks, the metal heads, and the rock and roll crowd. He didn't know which one to immerse himself in first.

The barista handed Vince his drink. “Here you go,” he said. “I am sure I recognise you.”

“Probably,” Vince replied with a smile, “if you read Before it was Cool or Charity Shop Wardrobe.”

“The first one, yeah,” the barista replied. “The second one... never heard of it. Must be amazing.”

“It is,” Vince replied and tightened up his man bun.

“I recognise him,” the clerk chimed in, ignoring the customer in front of the till. “March issue.”

“Oh yeah,” the barista gasped, “Vince Noir, right?”

“That's me,” Vince affirmed brightly.

“What are you doing in Nola?” The clerk asked. The patrons in the shop were curious by the rustle around Vince, and the door opened enough that a passing Bourbon Street rat peered in, recognised Vince, and came to get a better look.

“Looking for a friend,” Vince told them, shrugging his shoulders to indicate a lack of emotional attachment to the statement. Ever playing the part, Vince.

“Who is he?” The barista asked.

“Just some jazz nut from Leeds.”

“Leeds? Where's that?”

“Dingy part of England,” Vince replied.

“We might know him,” the barista tried with a smile.

“Doubt it,” Vince replied flatly, “he wouldn't hang around somewhere... like this.”

“Try me, dude,” the barista urged with a friendly tone, “New Orleans is... fluid.”

The clerk nodded in agreement, but it was distracted as he had gone back to serving customers.

“Alright... some berk called Howard Moon.” Vince smiled tightly. “Beady eyes, stupid moustache and -”

“Fuck yeah, we know Howard!” The clerk interrupted, loudly and with a guffaw of laughter.

Vince stood with his mouth open for a moment. “You what now?”

“Howard Moon... beady eyes. Yeah, he's a regular here.”

“You're kidding me, right?”

“No, man. Howard's a legend... he comes in almost every night before closing to get a coffee before a gig.”

“Howard comes in here?”

“Yeah?” The barista replied a little annoyed. “What's wrong with that?”

“Nothing... it's just... when Howard was back in London he wasn't a... legend.”

The barista laughed with a incisive look at Vince. “New Orleans is filled with people who don't fit in anywhere else. Different kinds of discrimination exist here... different to the type you are used too, I am sure.”

“Right.”

“We close at 9, if you want to drop by then. I'll tell Howard Vince Noir stopped by either way.” The barista smiled curtly, indicating the end of the conversation.

Vince should have been put out at the dismissal but instead found himself shallowed by the continual underestimation he had applied to Howard.

*

After touring the cemeteries in the dripping heat, and having a quick laugh with the King of Bourbon Street at Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop, and going to Preservation Hall with his tail between his legs for always treating Howard's interests as secondary to his own, Vince went back to the coffee shop.

It was empty when he arrived, but the barista was still there checking his cell phone behind the bar. “You're back!” He said when he saw Vince.

“Yeah,” Vince replied, “thanks.”

“No worries,” the barista smiled, somewhat suggestively, “but Howard just left.”

“Shit,” Vince murmured.

“I told him that you had come by, and he said to meet him at the Spotted Cat.”

“Where?”

“I'll take you dude,” the barista replied. “Wanna coffee before I clean down?”

“Uh... yeah... thanks.”

Vince sat and waited. His heart thumped out of his chest and on to the table twice, and the barista kindly helped him clear it up.

*

Howard's band was wild, and welcomed by the medium sized Wednesday crowd packing out The Spotted Cat at the far end of the French Quarter. The barista, Joe as he had officially introduced himself as, bought them both a beer and a shot of whiskey and the normally sober Vince drunk his down in tandem with Joe to steady his nerves.

Vince had spotted Howard, and Howard had spotted Vince. When Howard began his Jazz scat, a couple of pretty women whistled appreciatively and Howard winked at them; this made Vince nearly fall apart in wonderful rivers of confusion.

When the band had ended their set, and Howard began moving through the crowd the short way towards Vince, Vince was grateful for the slowing of his course by the patrons of the bar who took their time to talk to Howard.

Vince couldn't look at Howard, he was so aflame with embarrassment and emotions rising. The actual Spotted Cat bumped into Vince and they had a slight, awkward altercation where in typical American fashion a beer was bought for Vince in apology. This fracas meant that Vince didn't notice Howard's close approach until he leaned back against the wall he had been pressed against previously, and turned his head.

“Howard?!” Vince cried in surprise.

“Vince!” Howard replied. Vince could see the shine of pride in Howard's small eyes. “You found me.”

“I did... you're famous now.”

“Yes Vince, I guess I kind of am.”

“New Orleans modern legend,” Joe said leaning in to their conversation. “People come to Nola to see him, you know.”

Vince shook his head in wonder. “I can't believe it...”

“Believe what you will, my man,” Howard lorded, “but you've seen it for yourself now. You can go home and tell Bollo that all his jokes are on him now, thank you very much.”

Vince laughed, and so did Joe. It was all in good humor. “Not sure he'll like that,” Vince replied. “You know what Bollo is like.”

“The Gorilla, right?” Joe asked, and Howard nodded.

Vince felt funny at that. He wasn't sure how he was okay with Howard's and his lives being discussed without being there to witness the discussions. He wondered if he, Bollo and Naboo were just anecdotes now.

“You see Joe...” Howard began in his mystical discourse, “London is a lonely place. Not conducive to true jazz. Not for a musician like me, no sir.”

Joe nodded, seriously. Vince looked astonished and wide eyed with respect for Howard.

Howard looked at him and smiled. “You are now in the most cultured part of the world, Vince. I am going to take you somewhere you can have the best food you have ever tasted.”

Vince nodded, and said goodbye to Joe.

*

The had talked trivial bullshit for their meal at a gourmet hot dog place around the corner. Vince learned of Howard's band, his songs, his friends and his future musical plans. Vince told Howard about Naboochino, but stumbled over any exciting details because he felt inferior to Howard in a way he never thought possible.

Howard noticed the lack of bragging, and it worried him. “What's up, Vince?” He asked. “I hope you're not put off by my sudden musical prowess.”

“It's not really sudden though, is it?” Vince snapped with hushed volume.

Howard threw some green money on the table and nodded to the waitress walking by. It far exceeded what the bill would have come too, and Vince was impressed. Howard had always struggled for money... they both had. It was a sight to behold the confidence Howard was now justified in having.

“Come on Vince, let's go.” Howard was pouting.

“Go where?”

Howard stood. “Go back to mine,” he smiled. “We'll get a taxi.”

*

Howard lived in an apartment in Uptown. He lived alone, but the apartment didn't feel lonely. Records and instruments littered the surfaces, and there was a homely and bright, earthy colour palette.

“What did you do to your hair?” Howard asked as they sat in the lounge. “You look like a -”

“It's in fashion... back home.” Vince looked up through his lashes at Howard. “Not that you would know.”

Howard smiled sadly. “I was back last year... I've seen how it's changed.”

“You were what?!” Vince seethed. “You were back in London.”

“Yeah. For a gig... didn't Naboo tell you?”

“No.” Vince's teeth were stuck together in anger.

“Oh... right.”

Vince angrily looked at Howard right in the eyes and held fast for a moment before his fight wavered. He sighed. “It's my fault... I told them not to talk about you.”

“Why?” Howard asked curiously, but with certain hurt attached.

“Because you left, you prick! You just left!” Howard blinked at Vince. “You didn't even say goodbye.”

“I left you a note.”

“Howard, you idiot... we spent most of our lives together, day in day out. And you left without giving me a proper goodbye. You only left a fucking note and no clue as to where you went.”

Howard shrugged. “I'm sorry but I had to go Vince. No one understood me in London.”

“What?! I understood you.”

“No you didn't... you threw me to the wolves whenever you could. Like my birthday... you used my birthday as an excuse to have your own party. You couldn't go one day without making fun of my interests...”

“You had fun on the bouncy castle though,” Vince offered. “And you were chatting to that girl.”

“I just wanted to spend my birthday without someone taking the piss of me.”

Vince blushed and hung his head. “I'm sorry.”

“And I am sorry for going without saying anything,” Howard replied. “It was spur of the moment...”

“No, I'm really sorry that me taking the piss made you leave. I never thought of it like that... no wonder you never tried to get in touch with me. You must hate me, Howard.”

Howard bristled with a caring irritation. “Not at all, Vince.” He got up and went to a cupboard in his kitchen and poured what he had been promised by a friend to be the finest commercially available whiskey in New Orleans. He handed one to Vince too, but didn't think Vince would drink it... he was genuinely surprised when Vince did.

“It wasn't just that,” Howard said.

“Wasn't just what?”

“It wasn't just you taking the piss, or Naboo and Bollo. It was...”

Howard stumbled over his words and decided to stay silent.

“When you left, I tore you room apart looking for any clue I could find as to why and where you left. I was so angry at you. I am still angry at you, Howard.”

“I know. I heard.”

“You did?”

“Of course... Naboo gave me a right telling off when he found out where I was. He told me you didn't come out of your room for a week.”

Vince downed the rest of his drink and scowled. “What did I do, Howard? What did I do so you would leave me like that?”

Howard sighed. “Do you have a return ticket home, Vince?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Because I think you will want to use it...”

“Why?”

“Because I left because you didn't love me.”

“You were my best mate, Howard... of course I loved you, you twat.”

“No,” Howard shook his head and closed his beady eyes in embarrassment from the words he was saying. “After you kissed me on the rooftop, I realised that all those years I had feelings for you. Of course, as any man as sexually woke as I would feel, I was easily distracted by other objects of desire... but you...”

Vince was looking at Howard with his mouth open in wondrous shock. “Me what?”

Howard stood up to pour himself another drink. Vince was glad for the air conditioning that humid New Orleans night, for his shaky nerves were making him flush. At the cupboard and with his back turned, Howard's shoulders dropped and he said, “But you were always the object of my attention, really.”

Howard didn't turn around... he only took sips of his drink and stared at the kitchen cupboard door.

“You never said,” Vince told him.

“On the roof I did.”

“Oh yeah...”

“It doesn't matter anyway,” Howard told him.

“Howard... it does matter. You left me without telling me where you were going because you were in love with me. But you never even... we never really talked about it seriously.”

Howard sighed. “That's why I left, Vince... we have both moved on now.”

Howard turned around. Vince was stood there, and close enough so that it shocked Howard slightly. “I was heartbroken when you left...” Vince took the glass out of Howard's hand and put it on the countertop. “I guess, I always thought we would when the time was right but the time never was right... there was always adventures or parties getting in the way. We lived in a zoo and with Naboo and Bollo for ages and, well... to be honest I thought I was too good to be with someone who was into jazz.”

Howard laughed. “Jokes on you now, sir.” The words he spoke were slightly half hearted, for he was moved by Vince's proximity and the words Vince had said.

“You're right... I was a dickhead.”

“So was I... I shouldn't have gone like that.”

“Are you seeing anyone?” Vince asked quietly.

“Yes.”

Vince looked up worriedly at Howard. “Is it serious?”

“It could be... why?”

“Because whoever it is won't like me very much.”

“I'm sure she will... she just needs to get to know you.”

“Not after this,” Vince said before leaning in and kissing Howard gently. “Nothing has ever hurt me like you leaving...”

“Vince... I... we haven't spoken for years.”

“Well I'm here now, Howard.”

“You can't just walk in to my life like this and expect everything to be... like it was.”

Vince backed away. “Yeah...” he felt his passion cooling down. “You're right.”

Vince made his way to the door, and looked back once at Howard. Vince began to cry; a wound was opened he previously had not been able to identify the origins of. “I am so fucking sorry, Howard.”

He turned for the door and began his walk out of the apartment.

“Vince... wait!” Howard walked over and shut the door. “Maybe we needed some time off, you know? Perhaps the jazz gods have aligned to bring us back together now I have proved myself to the world.”

“You didn't need to prove yourself to anyone, Howard. I knew how special you were.”

Howard reached over and pulled the tie free from Vince's hair, where silky black locks tumbled down around Vince's neck. Howard ran his hand through Vince's hair and down his neck, arm, and finally took his hand.

He pulled Vince into the lounge and pushed him down towards the sofa. Things went swiftly from there, where kisses started gentle and then increased in pressure before mouths opened and tongues wound around each other.

“From the look of things, you aren't a virgin no more.”

“No sir,” Howard replied, and took Vince's baggy t-shirt-with-the-sleeves-cut-off off and threw it on top of a basoon. “That ship has sailed...”

“Have you got air conditioning in your bedroom?” Vince asked.

“Yes.”

“Then let's go in there.”

Howard stood and held out his hand to Vince who stood up with a lustful headrush. “I can't believe we are doing this,” Vince said as he was led into the bedroom.

“Oh yeah, and what exactly are we doing Vince?”

“What we should have done years ago,” Vince replied as he stood beside Howard's unmade bed and unbuttoned his cutoff denim shorts.

Howard watched Vince, eyes intense and wanting. “On the bed, Sunshine Kid,” Howard ordered.

Vince obliged after taking off his boxer shorts. Howard, still dressed, knelt on the bed and leaned down over Vince's groin. “I'm not going to lie... I have thought about this before,” Howard confessed before he went down on Vince.

Vince moaned, completely at odds with the reality he was experiencing where Howard was the leader and the successful one and Vince was... less so. “Me too, Howard,” Vince also admitted.

“You did?” Howard asked sometime later when he came up for air. “You thought about me like this?”

Howard moved up the bed and over Vince who pawed at Howard's shirt and shorts until they were off him. “Yeah, I did...”

“Well, Vince, let's finish the thoughts then,” Howard said, before making the proper motions to begin a sexual exploration he had always wanted too with Vince.

*

The subcultures in New Orleans were a little more permanent than those in London, but Vince had enough to sate his interest. He cared less for ways to impress people now he had the attention... the proper attention... from Howard.

They went on adventures across the bayou with blues crooning gators, and they had yearly visits back home. They got in trouble with voodoo queens and they had a brief moment of really bringing electro jazz to the people... but in the end, it was always them together. Through time and space.


End file.
